REMEMBERING THE RUSTIC HARMATTAN, COLD AND CHRISTMAS

A story that takes you deep into the rustic chill, disappointment and ecstacies of the topical child.

REMEMBERING THE RUSTIC HARMATTAN, COLD AND CHRISTMAS
Mid December morning. The first day after school had closed for Christmas. I had awoken to the sticky chill of the harmattan. From behind my mother where I'm culled up like a hedgehog, I felt piercing pangs of probing cold which sought my skin with the nagging ferocity of the devil after a lustful soul. The multiple holes in the thatched walls of our house did not help matters at all; they allowed those numbing darts free access to my skin.
Presently, my mother stirred. I knew she was going to "wake" me up next for prayers. I loath my mother's punctuality in that regard. She is a spoiler of sleep when it is sweetest. ...And she stirred again. This time she cleared her throat.

Hatred, resentment welled up in my throat. I feigned deep sleep, subdued my breathing as much as possible. ...a tap on my buttocks, followed by a croaky "Obi...wake up, it's morning and u need to go to the stream". I ceased breathing, pretended to be half dead. She slapped my buttocks hard and shook me vigorously "wake up...” she said. "Huuumn..." I murmured. I knew I was out of options.
I sat up on the raffia bed and ran my mind to and fro the road to the stream, over and over again. It was like yoga to my numb mind. I drew some strength immediately. The pain of braving the cold became a lesser evil than being slapped through the prayer for the sin of dozing off.

I groped in the hazy darkness until my numb fingers tipped over an empty plastic can. The hollow rattle on the hard floor woke my father. His bed creaked as he turned. I was already shivering away to the door when my mother called me back. She fumbled in her storage basket, brought out a block of soap and ploughed a hard cross on my head. "Don't fail to bath when u get to the stream" she ordered. I nodded in robotic affirmation. Of course I must bath; that cross on my head was a mark of condemnation; condemnation to compulsory bath in the near freezing cold of the harmattan morning.

Outside, the cold bit real harder. The sand was so cold that it felt like liquid fowl droppings underneath my bare feet. Groups of fowls huddled together, dump and shivery. Even the garrulous Cockerel did not crow this morning. No early birds chattered too. Everything was cold, hazy and still. I stood shivering until I heard muffled voices of stream goers passing by. Then, I followed.

By the time I had climbed the last slope on my way back, I stopped to catch a breath. I looked back at the dizzying depth of the massive canyon where the stream is located. From the height where I stood, the giant forest sheltering the stream below looked like carpets of stunted grass. The sun hung crimson above distant ridges of hazy horizon, casting eerie glow over the yawning misty hollow. Everything around seemed to be waking up to the reviving warmth of the sun. Cascading dry leaves. Crackles and rustles as they dance around in the whistling wind. I remembered that I was free from boring classes and lessons. I smiled. ...I thought about the imminent Christmas and the pervading air of celebration. I felt like one of those birds hovering in the air. I wished I could force the hands of the clock. I wished it was Christmas day already. That day of unfettered merriment and joy. (c) Nnabuife Ezema